Bound To The Ruthless Mafia Heir; Claimed By His Brother

Chapter Four: Grey Wedding Night

I turn.

Rafael. He stands a few feet away, leaning against the wall. “Abigail’s visiting her daughter who just gave birth. My brother…” he clicks his tongue softly, “…he’s not the best at keeping up with other people’s personal lives.”

“Oh,” I mutter. “I see.”

He nods, pushing away from the wall. I take a small step back, my breath catching as he closes the distance between us.

“He’s always been that way. Not a people person. Which is why—” His gaze dips, brushing over my mouth.

My tongue slips out before I can stop it, wetting my bottom lip.

“Dios mio.” He curses sharply under his breath as he glances away, his Adam apple jutting out.

The air ripples with something tense, but it’s gone almost as fast.

“That’s why he has me,” Rafael finishes lightly as he turns to me again, a careless smile tugging at his lips. He taps his chin, thoughtful. “He’s the brains of the family, and I run his errands, making sure his house doesn’t burn down.”

“I’ll take you to your room,” he continues, walking ahead of me. “It’s upstairs. My brother sleeps down here because of—” he gestures vaguely with his hands without turning around, “you know.”

I do.

Cassian Moretti is a paraplegic.

Rafael stops. He glances over his shoulder, his eyes searching my face. “You’re not curious?”

“About what?”

“You’re married to a man on a wheelchair. I doubt they told you beforehand—my brother has gone to great lengths to keep that particular information from getting out.”

My head bobs with the tiniest nod.

His eyes gleam as his voice lowers into a sultry, urging rasp. “Go ahead. Ask. After all, you’re part of the family now. I’m sure he’ll have no problem with me telling you the truth.”

“Ah,” I purse my lips, uncertain. “I wasn’t curious about that.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I was, briefly. But I’ve learned when not to ask questions.

Rafael strokes his chin, as if waiting for me to change my mind. When I don’t, he makes a sound under his breath. “I see. I understand why he chose you.”

He continues walking.

I follow, saying nothing. We climb the stairs, heading down the corridor to the right. I count my footsteps in my head, staring at the intricate design on the flooring.

“We’re here.”

My head shoots up. Rafael opens the door, gesturing in. “Here you go, Mrs. Moretti.”

“Thank you,” I mumble.

I can still feel him standing by the door as I walk in, taking in the room, the queen bed in the middle, the vanity table near the window. And my duffle bag against the wall. I turn, blinking slowly. “Is something…wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.” He starts to leave, then changes his mind, turning around again. His eyes fix on me, but his gaze is different this time.

It’s almost soft. “Do you know anything about my family, Miss Rossi?”

“Mrs—” I start to correct him, but something stops me. A quiet, unspoken desire to hang on to the life I left behind.

“Not really.”

A soft breath escapes him. His eyes drop—for a second—to my mouth. “I thought so,” he whispers. “Have a goodnight, Mrs. Moretti.”

The door closes, like the brush of a gentle wind, behind him. I stand in the middle of the room, unable to pull my gaze away.

What was that about?

I dismiss it with a brisk head shake, heading over to my bag. I sling it over my shoulder, making my way to the adjoining bathroom. Maria will bring the rest of my things in the morning. For now, I’ll have to make do with the tiny slip I shoved into my bag when I left home.

***

I peel off my wedding dress—a simple white thing with a tiny flower brooch—letting it pool at my feet. The tiles are warm as my bare feet settle on it.

I step out, naked, heading over to the mirror.

I stare at my reflection. My hair’s brown, with a hint of red I got from my mother. My eyes are gray. Not the shade that holds attention, but the kind that people gloss over, without a second thought.

My cheekbones fill out with slightly round cheeks and my jawline…pretty average.

Papa always said it helped me blend in easier. “You can choose how you appear to people, mi tesoro. It’s your strength.”

I trace a finger across my cheek, mapping the outline of my lips. They part and a small sigh slips out. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath.

Him.

My thoughts slip away, forming into a new face. Blond, messy hair. Mischievous, bright eyes. A small thrill rushes down my throat and I gasp quietly as my hand drops lower, pressing against my chest.

My breath hitches.

I moan, my back arching as I cup my breast in one hand, circling my n****e with my fingers—flicking, teasing. I clench, down there, pressing my thighs together to ease the pressure.

“I promise I don’t bite. Unless you’d want me to.”

My head falls back, my mind totally consumed by the feeling that ravages through my body, begging to be soothed. To be stroked.

I press the heel of my palm between my thighs, gasping and shuddering as a tiny jolt pushes through me. I press harder, as if I could push the thought of him out through my ribs.

It doesn’t work.

I arch into my own touch, staggering backwards.

My back hits the wall and a finger slips inside.

God.

I’m soaked.

My fingers glide through the slick heat, parting my folds, and I gasp, my hips jerking. I circle my c**t, slow at first, then faster, my breath coming in short, sharp pants. My breast aches where I’m still pinching, the pain and pleasure winding together until I can’t tell them apart.

“Unless you’d want me to.”

Fuck.

I imagine his teeth. The sharp sting of them on the soft flesh of my inner thigh, his hot breath against my skin. The way his hands would be rougher than mine, his fingers thicker, stretching me open.

“Miss Rossi.” He’d call me by my name, not the title I’ve been forced to bear. And then he’d smile, in that way that gets under my skin.

He’d know it too, that I’m a greedy thing, helpless against his touch.

My thighs clamp around my wrist, trapping my hand between them, the pressure almost too much. I grind against my own fingers, my hips rolling in sharp, needy little circles. I can feel it building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in my belly, my thighs, my cunt—wet and throbbing and so f*****g empty.

I add a second finger, pressing them both against my c**t, rubbing in tight, frantic little motions. My other hand abandons my breast, gripping the wall instead, my knuckles white.

It’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.

My knees weaken and I wobble, almost falling to the floor. All that exists is the heat, the pressure, the way my body is winding up, up, up—

A sound tears out of me, half moan, half sob, as the first wave hits. My back arches, my toes curling so hard my feet cramp. My fingers don’t stop, can’t stop, even as the pleasure borders on pain, my c**t oversensitive, my thighs trembling. I ride it out, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my skin slick with sweat.

When it finally ebbs, I slide to the floor completely boneless, my chest heaving. My hand slips out, wet and sticky—with the evidence of my tiny, private moment.

A tiny aftershock jolts through me as I stretch my legs out, and I whimper, my body twitching.

I pull myself to my feet, breathing heavily as I walk over to the sink.

Water gushes out of the tap angrily, droplets splashing on my body. “Cold, too cold,” I flinch sharply, turning it off.

I press back against the wall, my head falling against it. I hit a switch.

The bathroom is flooded with light, bulbs glaring from every corner. I blink, shielding my eyes as my vision swims for a second.

Then reality crashes back in. It hits me, what I just did. A hollow feeling settles deep in my chest, chased quickly by thick, suffocating shame.

Dear God.

I just touched myself—and came—to the thought of my husband’s brother.